People/Mind watching - My Innocuous beauty

People watching

On this very bench did I take long pondered gazes as the world pass me by; living, breathing, creating, the three eloquences of flavoring life. I would stay here for hours, wondering the finnit strands that binds this whole composition together, our life. Smelling the different aromas that will beckon and tantalize me to succumb to their paletteful momenteral joy. To the embellished sun rays that will comfort me in feeling warm and caressed in an unfamiliar place, while it softly converses with the wind and clouds of their importance. A eulogy of love and necessity would commence between them, creating the most masterful conversations that anyone could listen and feel if taken an interest to. An explosion of senses that triggers a sense of purpose and a momenteral joy of being alive. A reminder that being present in life rewards you with an abundance of flavours and textures, that one can taste and feel. Flashbacks of my childhood would emerge in the most peculiar ways, when following a scent or a moment that my eyes could gather, I would see past moments in my life playout in front of me. Be it happy or sad, all will start forming, elevating my fluctuating state that I was experiencing. Creating a waltz that slowly shifts in their every spin, floating amorously above the events am witnessing, referencing them closely and dearly to my heart. People coupled up, joyful, ecstatic of the new day unfolding with their dear ones. Tourists enjoying a slice of history and pride of the locals, and the locals bathed in the perplexity of the cycle and wheel they need to climb for their ranks. All suited up, in their makeshift circles and environments, damned in a shifted and skewed perspective of the fascination they once felt in their familiarly unfamiliar place. All fighting for my attention as I am here sitting on a bench witnessing it all, taking this all in. Cameras, phones and tablets would accompany their sides, their every gesture and thought. Replacing the maternal instincts of our newborns with them, unable to take our eyes off them and constantly being at an arm's reach. Embedded and nested in our brains of their importance of the promise of the inclusivity it can offer. How fascinating this all were to me. The world has changed, that much is true, as we all have. Such change baffled me every time I looked upon it, for every glance I would fail to meet, evolution and change was happening in its blickest of forms.

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Mind watching / the blinding stage lights

Some days, if not weeks, my ability to people-watch or even be around people is taken away, suppressed, as my mind doesn't allow me to witness the world. My mind's theater would cloud my vision in creating an artificial stage, with glaring big stage lights that outside light cannot penetrate. Creating a tight sealed chamber of me witnessing my mind's perplexions and coundless states of fluxuations it wishes to perform. In those very moments am I taken in a journey of my mind's performance, unaware of time nor space, but simply my artistic mind to make an assumption at the end of each display.

Days could pass or even months of these isolating acts of my mind, leaving me stranded and hallucinogenic at the end of it, my only sense of this would come as my art forms. I soon realized that it's a part of me that I cannot escape from, no matter what place or year I may resign, the next theatrical display is just around each corner. Even now in my travels, my state of potentially being anywhere and everywhere without hesitation did not help this either. A sense of sorrow washes this whole skepticism as I realize this is a big part of who I am. A version of myself that would always blame the environment, be it the weather or the people or clearly the situation that I was placed in, but even now, the oldest I have ever been, did I realise that I never came to terms with a fundamental part of me. This esoteric rhetoric side that needs its time to show me and perform an array of emotions. It emphasises that I am not a stretch of routine that simply keeps on marching on, but a cycle that swings in a circular, yet undetermined speed. For I could be riding a low wave or simply a quite high one, with occasional overlappings of the references of my mind's theater bleeding into my reality. Leaving me in a state of yearning to feel and understand more of it. The world around me taught me of the facade that everyone should be witnessed as a machine that provides and gives and keeps on giving even more - in reality taking more than what we ever need or possibly gave -, this 'perfect' oiled machine as is being represented. The only definition of a 'factionic human' I came close to understanding as of late. We were taught to seek inclusion in everything we will do in our lives, to the point of breaking fragments of ourselves to wrap so tightly and elegantly in colourful ribbons of our colourless selves, to present to someone in the hopes of being included. The idea that we all grow and change, is constant, and quite truthful - so does my mind question the integrity of inclusivity when we are so ever evolving. If we keep breaking and stripping of our evolution to include others that never cared for our change, then how is this not insanity? Clipping our wings as we dared to fly in that autumn sky, when the leaves are turning yellow and the world once again is cycling into its moody greys and isolating sights; so are we in our highest need of wanting to be part of something. For no greater is our desire then, to be included and a part of even our once detested of sights. A phenomen I kept on witnessing throughout my life even in my personal life, its effect slowly becoming so apparent. In all my people gazing and my mind's theaters, this 'performance' is being played and displayed in both worlds. So intertwine do I feel my artistic self being drawn to this subject that I think a life dedication of expressing it wouldn't even touch the concept of inclusivity. A nefarious yet longing feeling to be part of something. Stripping away our internal value, to the most manipulative and skewed external buyer. To my surprise, many love to pretend, to appear as a machine rather than a close semblance to a human. In many aspects of our lives, this definition took many forms; many words would share the same definition for our different needs in our lives. Words such as "professional" or "successful", all which underline the priority of being given the merit of "a good machine". Even in their literal sense did these words change forever in the english language to fit this criteria, like medals of honour of our societies praise...

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My mind's theatrical notes

Encapsulating despair; I recently caught myself looking back, looking at the versions that came before, to the version I am today. It seems the perplexity of the new world is undeniably influencing me. A journey introduced both in spirit and in mind, opened to all these new meetings with pleasant strangers and unique souls. Circling like a vortex of time, am I thrown at it, trying to swim in its currents of understanding a fraction of myself. Some days it becomes increasingly difficult and lonely within all of the different pages I land on in this metaphorical 'book'. Excitement seems to last as long as curiosity can be stretched. It seems fascination and intrigue fades once familiarity begins to kick in, or perhaps when one ponders too much and makes it so. An uplifting of comfort of grasping the new, or a circling disappear of the monotonous; both so tied together but chosen to appear at our eyes gaze. A novelty to acquire, to grab ahold off in hope of stuffing our every possible gap in our overblown scheduling histeria. A rhetorical homage to the 21st century - were obliviousness last rested and held its effect, slumbering to the few who are either are too crazy or too disconnected of this worlds motions. I began feeling like a stray animal that walked into a concrete jungle trying to find any source of familiarity but getting none. Looking curiously at everything that should make sense but being left senseless. Conversations would start and conversations would close; clacking of teeth and rolling tongues, incomprehensible noises that slowly fills silence, shattering the evening sun's warmth with a cold and unnatural touch. -"Am I being heard?...."

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-"Am I listened to....?; "

The mear words and sentences, that I could not discern. Such questions would circle their way around, creating a spiral pattern that dazed me. Endlessly, going on and on, creating clutter, and scraping off that dusty old insecurity. I would listen to every word, expression, and worry of the familiarly unfamial people that I meet. Every desire, wish, and hope of their future; a plan that cannot be planned but so tightly held together that even I could feel the painful grip marks that scorches one's palms. Embedded in my mind of the many conversations, words and feelings of what came before and what now. Creating doorways of yearning of the people I had those conversation with that did reciprocate the interest. It is so strange how things evolve, the older I get the more important being comfortable with the presence of a well placed conversation with the people I have around me. Promises and words and temporary comforts come as easy as they go. Creating wounds and infections that no longer are scratches, nor heal as fast as when we were younger. Fighting contempt and fear of opening up to the world in the promise of a glimpse of familiarity and a possible shine in the endless pool of life, of shared morality.

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